Pro Patria
by glishara
Summary: A young Minerva McGonagall, newly out of Hogwarts, deals with the reality of life in the wizarding world during World War II. Entry in Saeva's GenFicathon, with topic by FernWithy


The cold drizzle soaked through Minerva's wool greatcoat as she hurried down the city streets, checking addresses as she went. Her destination was jotted down on a worn scrap of parchment clenched in her hand, but she had peeked at it enough times to memorize it on her walk.

The city was a sad, dismal place that August. The weather had been unseasonably wet, and in recent days the background hum of Muggle activity had been muted as the first bombs fell on London. With many of the women and children evacuated to the countryside, and young men away at war, the nonmagical community was subdued and fearful, and the effect was drifting over to infect the witches and wizards in the city as well.

The house, when she arrived there, was a weatherworn old building, its sturdy brick fading from exposure to the light. A low, battered wooden fence surrounded its yard, which was covered in mortar dust. Minerva paused at the gate, then thumbed open the latch and pushed it open, following the path to the door.

When her knock failed to bring anyone to the door, she tried the handle. The door swung open. "Hello?" she called into the house. "Is anyone there? It's Minerva McGonagall, from Saint Mungo's." One of the first things they had been taught in training was that they should be careful when declaring themselves; one never knew when Muggles might be listening in.

The floorboards in the next room creaked, and a young boy appeared in the doorway. "Healer McGonagall," he said, his voice a nervous treble. "She's in here."

Minerva took in the fatigue in his face, the concern in his young eyes. "What's your name?" she asked him, stepping through the doorway.

"Ryan."

"Is it your mother?"

"Yes," Ryan said. The house was much larger than it had appeared from the outside. As they passed through an elaborately decorated trophy room, Minerva's eyes tracked along the curio cabinets along the walls.

Ryan paused, looking back at her, then gestured to one of the cabinets. "Those are all family heirlooms," he said with automatic family pride. "The cup there was Helga Hufflepuff's."

Minerva stared at the small, golden cup, awed in spite of herself. The handles were delicate and finely wrought, and the familiar emblem of a badger was engraved on its face. "It's beautiful," she murmured.

Ryan gave a shrug, and Minerva turned to look at him again. He was too young to understand history, she supposed, and probably also too young to understand death.

"I should see your mother," she said. Ryan nodded and led her on down the hallway and up a flight of stairs.

The smell of an unwashed body was overpowering in the small, hot room. Its windows were boarded up, trapping the mixing smells of sweat, blood, and, unmistakably, infection.

The source of the odors was lying in a bed by the window: a middle-aged woman, soaked in sweat, her jaw set against the pain. She was staring at the cracks in the wooden shutters, eyes locked on the slices of light between the cracks.

Minerva stepped into the room. "Wait outside," she told the boy, and closed the door firmly on his worried expression. Family members in the room complicated things. She turned to face the woman again, keeping her voice gentle as she spoke.

"Madam Smith?"

The woman turned to look at Minerva. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with fever. "Phoebe," she said, mustering a weak smile.

Minerva took that as an invitation, approaching the bed and smiling in return. "I am Minerva McGonagall, with St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries," she said. "We received your owl… you should have sent days ago, Phoebe."

"I thought… I'd dealt with it," Phoebe said, her words slow and labored. "I know some healing magic. It was just a simple wound. It was during the air raid."

Minerva glanced involuntarily up at the ceiling, then looked back down at the woman in the bed, offering a reassuring smile. "Well, I will give you a quick examination here, and then we will get you back to St. Mungo's. Is there someone who can watch over your son, or should he come back with us?"

"My aunt is out in the country. There's no one else."

"The hospital can look after him for as long as you are there," Minerva assured her. She pulled back the sheet as she spoke, revealing a dark stain on the bedclothes beneath Phoebe's thigh. The wound itself was inflamed, with angry red lines streaking away from it. The infection was clearly serious, but there were simple spells to handle it.

She pulled a small vial from her Healer's kit, offering it to Phoebe. "Drink this," she instructed. As Phoebe obeyed, Minerva took out her wand and waved it over the puncture on her thigh, murmuring a quiet cleansing charm. Nothing happened.

Minerva frowned. Phoebe shifted, trying to sit up to look at her leg. "What is it?" she asked. Minerva placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back down.

"It's all right."

It wasn't, though. This was a non-magical injury, and should have responded easily to the charm. Minerva studied the wound intently; was the extent of the infection worse than she had first thought?

For a moment, she thought it was a trick of the light, but the effect was clearly real: the snakes of infection spreading from the site of the injury were growing visibly as she watched, as if fed by her charm. Her eyes widened, and she jerked her head back.

"What?" Phoebe's eyes were wide, and her face pale beneath its fever-flush. Minerva tried to give her a smile, but it felt alien on her lips.

"I'm going to take Ryan back to St. Mungo's," she said. "I'll be right back, and then you and I will go."

Phoebe nodded, sinking back into her pillow and closing her eyes, worn down. Minerva suspected she had sent for the healer mostly for her son's sake – it might already be too late for her, at the rate the infection seemed to be spreading.

After Phoebe and Ryan were at St. Mungo's, Minerva sat down to speak with her supervisor. Galen Aldridge was an elderly wizard who had been working at St. Mungo's for nearly a century. He almost never saw patients anymore, instead helping train new healers like Minerva.

"Ah, McGonagall!" he said as she came into his office, a warm smile on his parchment-dry face. "How did your visitation go?"

"Oddly, sir," she replied, sinking into a seat.

"Oh?" Aldridge leaned forward in his chair, gazing at her with keen interest. "How so?"

"The patient looked like she had a simple wound, but when I cast the cleansing charm on it, the infection started to spread visibly."

Aldridge's wrinkled deepened in concern. "I thought you had the basic spells well-covered, McGonagall," he said with faint reproof in his voice. "If you had any concerns about your ability, you should have told us when we sent you out."

Minerva straightened. "I didn't get the spell wrong," she said evenly, although the accusation bit deep.

"It was a non-magical injury," Aldridge said, his tone sharpening. "If it did not respond to the spell, then you did the spell incorrectly."

Minerva didn't respond for a moment. She wanted to protest, but knew Aldridge would slap her down if she did. She had to approach this carefully.

"Sir," she said, "what if it wasn't a non-magical injury?"

"It was a wound taken during the bombing," Aldridge replied, turning his eyes down to a parchment scroll on his desk. It was a clear sign to Minerva that she should move on. "It is a non-magical wound."

Minerva hesitated, then plunged in. "Sir, they say that Grind "  
Aldridge cut her off by slapping a hand down on his desk; Minerva flinched.

"In Merlin's name, I thought you were too sensible to buy into that hysterical claptrap."

"Sir, I –"

"People get paranoid about everything when things are tense in the Muggle world. They are at war. We are not. Grindelwald may have made some controversial decisions about the directions of his study, but he is not a figure of all-consuming evil."

Minerva tightened her lips to a thin line, but just gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

"Practice your cleansing charms tonight. Hopefully you didn't do too much harm."

The gaze he leveled on her was deeply disapproving. Minerva gave a tight nod and turned to the door, leaving without waiting for his dismissal.

Out in the corridor, she scrubbed her face with one hand, trying to rub away the deep fatigue she felt. Her nerves were jangling, set on edge. She pressed her lips together and went to check in on Phoebe.

Phoebe's room was empty. Minerva's heart tightened in her chest, and she caught the sleeve of the nearest healer in the doorway. "Phoebe Smith?"

The healer shook his head. He didn't need to say anything else. Minerva stared at him for a moment, then released his sleeve and turned, striding blindly towards the door.

She stopped around a mile from the hospital to catch her breath, leaning up against the side of an abandoned shop. She tilted her head back until it touched cool stone, staring up at the overcast sky.

She had not killed Phoebe Kingston. The attack that had injured her was not a non-magical attack. A witch or wizard had attacked her. Grindelwald? It didn't matter. Minerva had not done it.

She was certain.

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, then turned and ducked down an alleyway. She needed a drink. She needed to get out of London for a while. A brief moment to focus, that familiar wrench, and she was standing in the village of Hogsmeade, outside of the Three Broomsticks tavern. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It was like walking into a different world. The main room of the tavern was full, and Minerva recognized several of her teachers from Hogwarts there. In spite of the three months since her graduation, it felt like returning home after a stressful holiday away; she felt herself settling back into the rhythms of her school days.

"Minerva McGonagall!" Liam, the barman, had spotted her. He crossed to her with a grin. "Welcome back! Tired of city life?"

Minerva smiled; a bit more of her tension slid away. "You have no idea," she said. "Could I get a firewhiskey?"

Liam winced good-naturedly. "Tough day," he said. "Have a seat. I'll bring it right over."

Minerva obeyed, settling into a seat by the wall and closing her eyes to inhale the familiar smell of the place. When she felt Liam beside her, she offered a smile and reopened her eyes. "Thanks, Li –" She broke off the words.

Albus Dumbledore, the Transfiguration Professor, stood beside her, smiling with a twinkle in his eye. "Minerva," he said. "How lovely to see you again."

Minerva hurriedly pushed to her feet. "Professor," she said. "It's good to see you again, too." It felt strange, mostly. This was the first time she'd spoken to any of her teachers since graduation.

Liam returned with her firewhiskey, plunking the glass down on the table. "Enjoy," he said. He gave a passing grin to Dumbledore and headed back to the bar.

Dumbledore gazed at the glass for a moment, then looked up at Minerva. "Difficult day?" he asked mildly.

Minerva's heart tightened painfully. She sank back into her chair, wrapping her hands around her glass without lifting it. She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Either I killed someone through my incompetence or the world is a much more dangerous place than anyone acknowledges," she said bitterly.

For a moment, Dumbledore said nothing. He lowered himself to sit opposite her, his knowing eyes resting on her face. "You never struck me as the kind of person who would make foolish errors when it truly mattered."

A stab of anger shot through Minerva, but it subsided near-immediately. That had been a comment in her support, not a negative judgment. "They won't see it that way."

"Sometimes people can be foolish that way. An unfortunate fact of life."

Minerva sighed into her glass, then lifted it and drank. The whiskey burned brutally, but it was a welcome feeling; she could feel the rush as the lightness struck her. "Do you think it's true, sir? What they say about Grindelwald?"

Dumbledore gave her one of his obscure smile. "People say many things. The truth is usually found somewhere between all points."

"You're terrible at straight answers." Some of Minerva's irritation with the world was spilling over into her voice.

"Indeed, you are not the first to say so."

There was a trace of amusement in Dumbledore's tone, but under it a richer sadness. It was not the words, but the way he said them, that sent the pieces clicking together in Minerva's mind.

"What do you believe?" she asked, her gaze unwavering on him. There was tension around his mouth, and new lines creased the corners of his eyes.

"Ah. Now that is a complex question. And one perhaps better-suited for other times. How go things in London?"

"How do you think?" Minerva drank again, then dropped the glass back onto the table with a satisfying clunk. She traced the rim with one finger as she spoke. "The Muggles are terrified. The war is hard on them. The ministry insists that we should continue with our lives, but there are injuries in our world, as well."

Dumbledore stilled briefly. It was a subtle change, but Minerva had worked closely enough with him as a student to notice. "What?" she asked, her forehead creasing as she looked at him.

"An old man's fancies, no more," Dumbledore said. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes again lit with their familiar twinkle. "Was that what happened to your patient?"

"You are not an old man," Minerva said automatically. "But yes, it was."

"Ah…" Satisfied enlightenment colored his tone, and he leaned back in his seat. Minerva narrowed her eyes at him and leaned in.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked.

Dumbledore hesitated. Minerva pressed in further.

"I'm not a student anymore," she said, her voice as clean and professional as she could make it. "I don't need protecting, and I deserve to know the truth."

Dumbledore smiled a slight, sad smile. "Alas, Minerva, there are those other than you who may need protecting."

Minerva straightened suddenly, planting both hands flat on the table as she sat up in her chair. "It's an army," she said. "You've formed some kind of secret army to fight – to fight him? To fight Grindelwald?"

Dumbledore waved a hand, not in dismissal, but to still her. He moved his eyes around the room and said, quietly, "We ought not speak of such things in crowded rooms, Minerva."

Irritated, Minerva pulled out her wand and cast an imperturbable charm around them, not bothering to speak the incantation. The familiar bubble formed around their table. "We're protected," she said evenly. "Tell me."

For a long moment, Dumbledore did not speak. He studied her with deeply perceptive eyes, and it took some effort for Minerva to keep her resolve. She didn't speak, either.

Finally, Dumbledore inclined his head slightly in concession. "Indeed," he said. "You are not a student any longer. It is unjust to keep things from you."

Minerva could abruptly feel her heartbeat in her ears, and she lowered her hands to grip the fabric of her robe across her thighs.

"Grindelwald's research – research our Ministry has let it be known they disapprove of, although they will not act to stop him – has of late turned toward a new spell, which I heard of only by chance. The spell, which he is calling the Imperius Curse, has the power to compel another person to any action the caster chooses. Total control. I suspect, as do many others, that he is using it on certain important public figures during his time in Germany."

Minerva felt cold. "Hitler."

Dumbledore nodded.

"But why?" It didn't make sense. What was the point of all the death?

"I believe," Dumbledore said, "that he is targeting significant figures and significant lineages in the magical community. The, ah, incidental damage, as I believe he might deem it, is irrelevant to him."

"Phoebe Smith," Minerva realized, touching a knuckle to her lips. "A descendant of Helga Hufflepuff's." And then the other implications of his words registered. "Who else?"

"The final descendants of Igraine are now dead," Dumbledore said. "Paracelsus's late scion. Queen Maeve's many-times grandchildren have been killed. Rowena Ravenclaw's line is reduced to one. And now Hufflepuff's line is being attacked."

The reality of it was slow to sink in. Minerva couldn't speak for several minutes, and Dumbledore waited patiently. Hundreds of thousands dead; cities in terror. Could all of that for the sake of targeting a few people? How many more would die first?

"We need to do something." Her eyes met his. "I have to do something."

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "Minerva—"

"Don't," she snapped, her chin jerking up irritably. "Don't tell me the reasons I shouldn't do it. My job at St. Mungo's is gone, or might as well be. I can help, and I can't go back to hiding. And besides…" She hesitated a moment, then twitched her shoulders back. "This is personal, now."

Dumbledore's blue eyes were unfathomable as he gazed at her. Minerva let him think without speaking, though she met that gaze squarely, her jaw set in determination. Finally, he spoke.

"I cannot deny our need, and I will not deny you your battle."

The expected triumph didn't course through Minerva. Instead, she felt heavier, worn, and unmistakably older. She lifted her glass and took a long sip. Her eyes moved towards the door as she spoke. "This isn't going to be a short fight, is it?"

"Very few worthwhile ones are."

Minerva nodded slightly, her eyes moving back to him. "But we're going to win." She spoke with more certainty than she felt, making an unequivocal statement of it. From the odd smile Dumbledore offered her, she had a sense he could feel the indecision behind her words. His own voice was mild as he replied.

"We are." 


End file.
